The men behind the curtain

Sometimes you do have to pay attention to the men behind the curtain.

Saturday Ben and I were running around the north metro for his baseball tryouts. Ben, at 11, has now reached the magic age where he enters the regular Little League, the one with the traveling teams, the World Series and the chance for moppets to practice flexing for ESPN. Since Ben plays in the Shoreview Little League, there's a chance some of his peers may do some flexing - this organization sent a team to the Big Dance back in 1997 and is regularly one of the most powerful programs in the state. Since Ben has played in this organization for four years now, he knows how to play and he really enjoys the game, but he is not likely to be chatting up Gardy a decade from now. The Shoreview folks do take this sort of thing seriously. So Ben joined a bunch of other kids for the big tryout on Saturday.

The tryout process is pretty mysterious for a first-time dad like me. We were told to report to Line Drive Sports in Lino Lakes on Saturday morning for an evaluation of Ben's hitting prowess. Line Drive is a batting cage in an industrial complex that was pretty much hiding behind the mess left behind by SNOWMAGEDDON'S BAD-*** COUSIN. I drove right past it on the first approach and realized, once I was approaching Mora or something like that, that I'd overshot a smidge. So I turned around and eventually found the place. The kids were given numbers to wear - Ben was number 571 - and were ushered to the back. Parents were told to stay behind.

So the ritual was shrouded in mystery. At one point the door opened and I was able to catch a quick peek at the set-up. A panel of coaches were sitting high above the kids, looking for all the world like the Supreme Court, except clad in nylon warmup suits. The men appeared to stare impassively at the lads, occasionally writing something on a clipboard. Not a word was spoken, it seemed. While the parents milled around in the pro shop and pawed through the overpriced merchandise, kids would emerge, one by one, either smiling or frowning. After a while, Ben came out with a smirk, an expression he's clearly learned from his father.

"How'd it go, slugger?" I asked.

"I was a little bit rusty, I think," Ben replied. "But I'll get to play in the American League, right?"

"Sure," I said.

Here's what that means. At this age they take the best kids and put them in what is called the National League. Here the top kids, the ones who are eventually headed for the high school varsity, the AAU and all the other tentacles of the sportsocracy in this country, form "traveling" teams that require their parents to essentially sacrifice their social lives for the coming year. Traveling teams are very glamorous, as the kids get to compete all over the area and beyond. Nothing quite beats the fun of a 9 a.m. game in Inver Grove Heights, or maybe an overnight trip to New Ulm. Kids who aren't quite up to this lofty level play in what is called the American League, which is a lot like the league Ben played in last year, except with more spitting, I guess.

Can I be honest? I'm glad that Ben will be in the American League. He'll be able to play, learn and have fun, rather than having some manufacturer's rep/Earl Weaver wannabe eroding Ben's ego with invective or (worse) silence. As a practical matter, the terminus of Ben's baseball career will likely be in beer league softball some day. You don't need expert teaching to play that.

I love baseball, but youth sports get a little too intense sometimes. The game is the thing and I'm glad Ben will be playing this year. Maria will, too. More on that in coming posts.